Bindu Adne Ho Gomdar  or, The Internet is Forever
by starofoberon
Summary: It was meant to be a harmless April Fool's prank, but when David Rossi engaged the Goddess of All, Known and Unknown, well ... it's not wise to fool with a Goddess. Response to CCOAC March Madness challenge, Rossi/Garcia, Twilight Zone - ONE SHOT


A/N 1 Usual disclaimers, yada yada. Only the plot and the dialog are my own. The characters belong to the usual suspects: Ed Bernero and CBS, ABC Productions, Mark Gordon Co., not to mention the writers and the gifted performers who brought these folks to life to enchant and seduce us.

A/N 2 Response to the March Madness challenge on CCOAC, wherein my prompts were Rossi, Garcia, and Twilight Zone.

A/N 3 Coincidentally, it also meets the requirements for the April Foolery Frolic challenge on the same forum – so consider this an April Fool's Day prank on a couple levels, OK?

**Bindu Adne Ho Gomdar**

**or**

**The Internet Is Forever**

Maybe he could blame it on Marilyn Monroe.

The whole thing started because he thought she looked utterly adorable when she was wide-eyed and lost. It was – well, it was like a JJ thing. Rossi was drawn to tall blonde clueless women the way Hotchner was drawn to short blonde ball-busters.

Not that Marilyn Monroe had been tall, except to a small boy being imprinted with his first image of the perfect-looking woman. And not that JJ had actually ever been clueless, although she certainly could fake it for her own nefarious purposes, and she was gorgeous when she did so.

In Seaver, however, Rossi had a chance for the Real Deal.

To pull it off properly, however, he needed the help of the Goddess of the All That Is Known and Unknown, so one overcast spring morning he visited her in her dimly lit lair of flat-screen monitors with a gift of flowers, a Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino, and a troll doll.

Her Serene Techiness peered at him through lavender cat glasses. "Who are you, my love?" she purred. "What are you? And what have you done with David Rossi?"

He sat down uninvited in the visitor's chair to her right. "I need you," he told her urgently.

"Oh, be still my bespectacled heart, but have you checked with Kevin? Or even Morgan?"

"I need your crazy mad computer skills," he said, and added quickly, "I know that your, um, bespectacled heart is taken."

"Then what do you need, Gentle Profiler?"

_Gentle Profiler_, huh? He hadn't really expected to be a _Chocolate God of Thunder_, like Derek, but he had at least hope to rate something equivalent to Aaron's _Fine Furry Friend_ title.

_Ah, well …._

"Just give me time here, Garcia. I need for you to write something for me. It won't be a major literary thing, just a runt, or whatever they call those little bitty entries—"

"Little bitty what entries? What are you talking about?"

"On—you know, the whatever it is." He didn't like the look she was giving him. "The thing," he said, nodding encouragingly at her monitors, "where you look things up."

"The computer," she prompted with a look that indicated that she feared for his sanity.

"Yes, it's on the computer, and you look things up on it—" _I sound like an idiot_, he thought, and flailed mentally for the name of the damn thing. "Even us non-techies, we can look things up on the computer with—" He prompted her anxiously, desperately.

"Google?"

"Yes!" he cried. "I mean, no! No! More like an encyclopedia!"

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. "Wikipedia?"

He almost collapsed in relief and gratitude. "Right! Wikipedia!"

"So—" She pursed her lips. "Your _little bitty thing_, your _runt_ would be … a Wikipedia stub?"

"Exactly. A stub. A little bitty thing about Saint Plooskeevia."

"Who?"

"Just stay with me, Garcia. She's an imaginary saint, OK?"

"Plooskeevia," she repeated, and wrote it down with a pen topped by glittery blue troll-hair. "How is that spelled?"

"However you want to spell it," he replied. "I figure she's from Georgia, the former Soviet republic, not the southern state, because absolutely nobody around here speaks Georgian. I looked it up."

"An imaginary Georgian saint."

"Right," he said. "From the Fifth Century. And I have some notes here." He fished them from the pocket of his jacket. "See, some scholars believe that she never existed—"

"Duh," she said.

"No, I mean they believe she's based on the mythological earth mother figure, Ploosina Askeevel, she from whose breasts the nourishment of the earth flows."

Garcia batted her long lashes. "And _she's_ real?"

"Of course not—but she sounds real, doesn't she?"

Penelope snorted. "She sounds like something the Marx Brothers would—"

"Just—just stay with me, Garcia. Please. All I need is an itty bitty little stub that you could sneak out onto Wikipedia for just a few short hours, just long enough for me to fool Ashley Seaver into thinking that she really exists and that on her feast day women are encouraged to expose their—"

"Honey," Garcia sighed, "we're creeping up on April first. The Wikipedia minions are guarding the data entries on their site with their little digital lives, to prevent exactly that kind of thing from happening."

As his heart sank, she considered her monitors. "It would take some mad hot Goddess skills to pull that off, wouldn't it?" she said.

And—was she smiling ever so faintly?

"It certainly would," he said, his voice respectful—no, worshipful.

She patted his knee. "It will be done, Gentle Profiler."

"Thank you," he breathed. "Here is the most important part." He passed her a file card on which he had block printed four words.

"What's this? I don't even recognize the language."

He grinned evilly. "_Bindu adne ho gomdar,_" he recited. "In some ancient language nobody recognizes, it means, _Show me your nipples_."

Penelope studied the card for a few seconds. "What language is this?"

"It isn't any. I made it up. Sounds nice and foreign, doesn't it?"

She stared at him. "You, my friend, are twisted."

His grin widened. "Glad to have an expert like you confirm it," he said with glee. "Here are the rest of my notes."

"Perfecto." She took the folded sheets and winked at him.

~ o ~

The first of April dawned gray and blustery, but David Rossi barely noticed the inclement weather. He crooned along with Dean Martin on CD on his way in to Quantico. He hummed along with an instrumental version of Shania Twain in the elevator.

Today was going to be fun.

He walked with a distinct bounce in his step toward his office, returning waves from Reid and Anderson. Nobody tried to tell him that he had egg in his beard or his shoes were untied.

He sat down at his desk and fired up his monitor.

A new graphic glowed on his desktop: an obviously ancient wood carving of a bare-breasted woman—and she had huge hooters, too—buried up to her hips in a grassy knoll. Bold black squiggles, apparently some obscure language, filled the lower left corner of the screen, and were translated in a tiny white font as _St. Pluskevia, ca 427-468 CE._

_Wow. Garcia is good._

He clicked on his email icon and the first message in his box was from JJ Jareau. The subject header was _Bindu Adne Ho Gombar, Tiger!_ — and a smiley that appeared to represent a pair of boobs. There was a graphics file attached.

_Garcia has outdone herself,_ he decided.

He clicked on the attachment and caught his breath. A jubilant Jennifer Jareau grinned out at him from the privacy of her office at the Pentagon, the hem of her blouse yanked up clear under her chin, her small but sassy breasts on display, each with … the nipple colored green?

Good Lord. That woman was _hot_.

He dithered about the graphic. On the one hand, he certainly wanted to save that picture. He had been trying to get a look at JJ's bare boobs since he returned to the BAU, and green nips or no, they were well worth the wait. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted them on his hard drive if someone from Standards or even Tech Support accessed it.

"No," he heard Reid say in the faintly nasal tone that he assumed when he was in full lecture mode. "Some scholars believe that the proper form to address a male with is _hei_, not _ho_—but then, those who see a superficial similarity to Tamil say that—"

_Garcia is a goddamn miracle worker._

He got up and moved back out into the bullpen area.

Derek Morgan wore a clingy tee shirt almost the exact shade as his skin tone. The nipple area on both sides was bright green. He looked up at David, beamed, and called, "Hey, man, bindu adne ho gomdar!"

"Woo!" Ashley Seaver cried as she entered, her cheeks rosy and her step energized. "Come on, David baby, let's see 'em!"

_What is this? Freaking Mardi Gras, Part Two?_

It wasn't supposed to work this way. He was supposed to be looking at Seaver's boobs, not having her – and Morgan – chanting for him to raise his shirt.

"Guys, guys," came the voice of Aaron Hotchner, Destroyer of All Fun. "We have a meeting in ten minutes, so let's bring it down now." As he entered the room, his arms full of files, he said, "Hurry up, Dave, show them your tits so we can get to work."

On his lapel … in the place where a sane man might wear a flag pin … Hotch wore a small gold pair of breasts with bright green bejeweled nipples.

Rossi gaped. "Where did you get the pin, Aaron?"

Hotchner glanced down automatically at his lapel. "Same one I wear every year," he said, his voice distracted. "I think my mother bought it for me in New York. Why?"

Seaver raised her tee shirt way up; she had decorated her nipples with bright green sparklies. "Come on, party pooper," she urged, "_Bindu adne ho_—" she glanced at Reid "—or _hei_, as it may be, _gomdar_!"

"Woo! Woo!" Reid and Morgan—and everyone else in the room, Second team, Records, and all—began to chant rhythmically along with her.

The focus of all attention, he looked around the bullpen and realized that he had been thoroughly counter-pranked. With a game smile—never let it be said that David Rossi couldn't take a joke—he raised his shirt.

The entire room cheered. Even Hotchner.

"OK," Rossi said. "I've been schooled. Are we all done here?"

"Of course," said Morgan. "Just getting into the spirit of the day is all. What's the matter with you, man? Last year the craziest Pluvie Party of them all was out at your place."

"Pluvie Party?"

Morgan's face darkened. "Time out, man. Time to end the joke, OK? Your Pluvie Party? On St. Pluskevia's Day? Do not tell me you've forgotten, because I still have the damn pictures on my flash drive—" He patted his pocket. "I brought them in to show Seaver."

"Yeah," Rossi replied, challenge in his voice. "I'd like to see them."

"Well, do it in there," Hotchner sighed. "We have to get started."

~ o ~

Five minutes later, a thoroughly frightened David Rossi stumbled into the lair of the Supreme Goddess of All Things Technical.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

"Do?" she echoed. Her work station was decorated with actual, tangible greeting cards that featured a bare-bosomed woman with green nipples. Some were comic, some romantic, and some were sickly sweet spiritual, but all looked alarmingly real.

"They have pictures!" he told her, his voice unsteady. "Dozens of pictures of everyone on the team, even JJ, even Prentiss, even freaking Erin Strauss with no shirt on, at a St. Pluskevia party last year. And I was there, Garcia. I was in those pictures at a party I didn't attend to honor a saint I just made up last weekend! It's like she really exists, like she has always existed!"

Penelope gave him a slow sad smile. "That's what can happen, Love Bug," she said, "when you put stuff out on the Internet. It isn't just forever, you know. It can alter the contour of reality." Her smile widened and he caught a hint of fangs.

"Who are you?" he whimpered. "What are you? And what have you done with Garcia?"

"_Moi_?" She batted her eyelashes. "Why, I am the Goddess of All Things, Known and Unknown. Also All Things Possible and Impossible."

"Garcia—" His voice throbbed with desperation. "Change it back."

"No can do," she replied. "Once stuff is out there, it's just out there. The Internet is forever, Cupcake."

"No, no—"

"And now—" She favored him with a demonic leer. "_Bindu adne ho gomdar!_"


End file.
